Hostel Intent
by Morgan711
Summary: Far from populated space, ONI runs secret investigations into an ancient Forerunner complex that holds the key to discovering a devastating secret, but the Covenant have caught wind. With no support, a small group of men fight for their very survival.
1. Prologue

_Author's Note: This story coincides with my friend's story, 'Trial By Fire'__, also on FanFiction, as we wrote up the plotlines together over far too much time, with both being set in the same version of the Halo universe. Even though he suggests in his own note at the start of his story that the idea of the Spartan III-Xs was his, it was in fact a culmination of both our minds, as is the majority of the details in both plots. For now, the two stories are entirely separate, but will converge as time progresses. The timings will be clearly made out, and we will post links to one another's stories. In a way, 'Trial By Fire' comes first, and 'Hostel Intent' takes place after, even though much of it is set beforehand. The second half, however, will be a direct continuation of 'Trial By Fire', and I'm sure JHYW and myself will find some way of making things easier for people. We may even make an account just for our stories. We'll see. We also hope that this joint story (that we haven't got an overall name for, yet) will be the first of many, as we have many future plans._

_Concerning technology and weapons, this will focus on weapons from throughout the series, and I may even be inclined to load up some photos of the characters and fights at some point, using the Halo game systems and ._

_Yes, the characters are based on real life people, in name and personality. And yes, I am rambling, so let's get on with the story itself._

'Trial By Fire': Search author "JHYW", "Trial By Fire".

ADDITIONAL: Part of the "Halo: Halberd" series of stories.

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**HALO: HALBERD**

**_Hostel Intent_**

**_PROLOGUE_**

**0200 Hours, October 02, 2552, (Military Calendar)/Desert Plains, near Covenant-occupied UNSC Outpost "Hostel Base", Hostel**

"Not a chance." A long puff of cigarette smoke filled the air in front of the soldier's visor, and was quickly blown away by the heavy wind engulfing the sprawling desert. Corporal Oliver Webb looked through the scope of his sniper once more, glad that he could not feel the cold metal of the weapon through his gloves. The temperature had been dropping rapidly, much to his dissatisfaction, although his posture served to conserve much of his waning body heat.

Overhead, the twin moons provided some weak natural light for the non-com, faintly glimmering amongst the stars above, exposed until the star that lit this 'non-existent' system would outshine them in the steadily-approaching dawn, and return the sandy dunes to their usual, overheated and glistening selves. Webb chewed on the butt in his mouth as he closed his eyes momentarily to embrace the cool wind that, despite its harsh temperatures, was actually rather refreshing following a hot day lifting and organising military equipment, despite his initial disdain towards it. This was his downtime, even if he was ordered here. Regardless of the conditions, he enjoyed his time alone with nature; it gave him time to be alone with his thoughts, after spending so much time around other people.

His unannounced companion dropped to the ground next to him, lying as flat as he could as he crawled closer to the smoker, sand and ash billowing into his eyes. The new arrival was almost silent in the sound of the growing wind as grabbed the cigarette from Webb's mouth, and flicked it down the slope they were settled atop of.

"What the-" Webb caught himself before he continued his sentence as he realised who it was now laying next to him. "Sir?"

"Any news, corporal?" The gruff, older soldier was now shoulder-to-shoulder with the marksman, his own BR55 Battle Rifle slung round the back of his trademark black ODST body armour.

"Not much, sir." Webb peered through the scope of his weapon once again, sighting an amber-clad Elite conversing with three small Grunts next to a large purple container. They seemed almost impervious to the weather. Or at least, the larger species of the Covenant were better at hiding their discomfort. Then again, the shelter the ancient stone structure that made up HOSTEL's main base provided a good deal of cover from the natural dangers of the planet-wide desert, and was well adorned with modern technology to make the place a more palatable fortress for its human – now Covenant – inhabitants. "They spend most of their time patrolling the perimeter." The reticule of the sniper sights rested on the head of the red-armoured alien he had been observing. "Every now and again, some technicians run into the main structure. Very few come out, but those that do appear disappointed or frustrated. I can't really tell, but they look angrier than they normally do, which is saying something."

The ODST grunted in response, reaching over to grab the rifle and look downrange himself, using the scope to examine the tallest spire and the runway they had used for small air vehicles. A lone Jackal slept atop the spire, his own purple sniper resting against his slowly heaving body.

"I considered popping a few of them," Webb's voice was indignant, "but the wind's too heavy, and they're bound to spot one of their snipers missing. It's mainly just Elites shouting at Grunts, even at night. They definitely don't want anyone getting in there. Forcefields keep getting erected around the doorways, and it's mainly majors they're using as guards."

"Not surprising." The officer returned the sniper to its owner. "ONI was keen to keep this place under-locks. God knows how the Cuvvies managed to find us." He rolled over onto his back and sat up straight, checking the radio equipment attached to his armour. "There's no chance of us taking HOSTEL Base back without their cruiser up there sending down even more reinforcements, but given the nature of this place, I wager it won't be too long before someone comes a running to our aid."

"And until then, lieutenant?"

"And until then, corporal," he spoke softly, a wise tone replacing his gruff one, "we keep our heads down. Do what we can to prepare for when the time comes. Follow orders, like we always do."

Webb shuffled on the spot, uneasy about the prospect of waiting around in the desert for much longer; he was keen to start taking back what the Covenant had stolen from them. He, and indeed all of the survivors currently camping only two kilometres from their position, had lost a lot of friends and soldiers in assault some days before. He had been lucky when they came; the main assault took place on the main complex, where most of the science personnel had been working, and the marines had been training. Communications with the cruiser stationed in orbit, the UNSC _Morning's Scimitar_, had failed about twenty minutes before the initial bombardment, and the ensuing chaos consisted of several waves of Phantoms deploying squads of Covenant warriors, that quickly dispatched much of the ill-prepared UNSC forces.

Being quite far from human space and a secret operation, HOSTEL had a relatively small contingent stationed permanently, so as not to draw too much attention, and the _Scimitar _was the only ship that ever entered the system. Presumably, it had been destroyed in the first attack by the Covenant ship or fleet that arrived in orbit. Bombardment, however, had been limited to skimming the surface of the installation. Evidently, whatever reason ONI had to be there, the Covenant shared it. Even now, wreckage of Hornets shot down, Pelicans grounded and dead bodies littered the sand and stone that made up the base. From here, Webb could quite clearly make out the still-burning fires from destroyed Warthogs.

Webb clearly recalled that, about an hour into the fighting, he had rushed from his position under the main spire, ducking from incoming plasma fire, and jumped to the level beneath him, spraining his ankle as he landed hard on the sand. When he recovered from the shock of the fall, he noticed the unmoving body of a uniformed woman, deep crevices in her back where the pink needles of the trademark Covenant needler firearm had impaled her, and subsequently exploded. If it hadn't been for the quick actions of his squad's sergeant, he would have also endured the experience of a detonating plasma grenade, but he was quickly rushed inside, with about thirty other soldiers and scientists who had escaped the onslaught. Their escape from the base itself after that, though, was very unsuccessful, with only fifteen of the original managing to reach their new hiding place. Along the way, despite Webb's limping, he was skilful enough with his sniper to take out any pursuers, so their whereabouts couldn't be logged. The battle itself, though, carried on late into the night of that day; the small camp could still hear the cries, gunfire and explosion until the early morning, at which point one more survivor from the base arrived, informing them of the complete Covenant occupation. Webb found himself caressing the barrel and stock of his gun as he recalled the events, his fingers feeling the word 'Honcho' engraved down it.

That had been a very long night, and like most of the UNSC personnel stationed on HOSTEL, Webb had no idea why ONI was so interested in the ancient alien structure they had adapted into a military and scientific installation. He had seen the training programmes being run by the armoured super-soldier for the new recruits that had recently been shipped in, but there were so few of them, it seemed more coincidental that they would be here, given the excavations under the base had been ongoing for sometime prior to their arrival. Beyond the training and developments in a new aerial vehicle – that, quite frankly, could be completed anyway – ONI was far more interested in something else, as were the Covenant attackers, who had made no attempt at capturing the super-soldiers they found. Those they did come across had been killed without hesitation: another notch in the belt, for most Elites. The Covenant's interest seemed to be in the base, itself, rather than those present, and Webb wasn't aware of any prisoners that had been taken by them. He simply assumed that anyone who wasn't with them had been killed.

The lieutenant smacked the soldier on the back, disturbing his distant daydreaming. "Come on, corporal. Let's move out. The captain wants us to regroup back at camp, and we don't want to keep him waiting; he's threatening to shoot people himself, if they don't turn up at the right time." The ODST flexed his arms and legs after standing, pulling his rifle down in front of him as a precaution.

Oliver nodded to the lieutenant, before taking one last look down the sights at the patrolling aliens, aiming squarely at the red major's head, still. He grinned to himself. "You got lucky today, punk."


	2. Chapter One

**_CHAPTER ONE_**

**1020 Hours, September 30, 2552, (Military Calendar)/UNSC Stealth Frigate _Morning's Scimitar_, near Hostel, location classified**

The air was cold but surprisingly fresh on the bridge of the quiet vessel. A gentle hum could be heard under the hushed mutterings of the sparse officers at their stations, with one tall figure standing broad before the main viewing port. The captain, an elderly and portly statue of a military man, had one hand resting upon safety bar as he scanned the horizon. The starfield was bare, save for the large yellow sphere suspended before the _Scimitar_; the planet they were permanently assigned to, until the Office of Naval Intelligence said otherwise, at least.

The planet below, as well as its two picturesque but bare moons, represented a huge investment for ONI and many others in the UNSC, not that many of the military or naval personnel were actually aware of that, as several operations of the extremely classified nature were being conducted on the surface, and it had been that way since the range of _Morning-_class vessels were launched, some five years ago. Even they had been a major classified project, as they took on technology adapted from the highly prized human stealth vessels, as well as incorporating some of the greater firepower, speed and armour of the more general battleships and frigates. Naturally, this impeded their stealth assets, but not to too much of a degree. Unless other vessels were close, the UNSC _Morning's Scimitar _would not be detected. No system was perfect, though. Not even the Covenant ones.

It was only the highest of the highest, even on this most secret of all ships, that even had the slightest idea of what was going on down on the surface of HOSTEL. Rumours circulated around the ship, as they do, normally concerning theories of what was going on, based on what the _Scimitar_ was responsible for ferrying to and from the planet. It was taken as given that some form of mining operation or excavation was occurring, as equipment was frequently brought to the base, as well as the fact that the base on HOSTEL itself is of alien origin. Another theory – an incredibly tangible one, it would seem – is that it had become the base for the training of Spartan supersoldiers; a few months ago, the _Scimitar _had been tasked with collecting a small contingent of armoured warriors and delivering them to the desert world.

However, none of that concerned Ensign Jack Crawley. What concerned Ensign Crawley was the blip in the sensor logs he was currently detecting. Scanners had picked nothing up in the sector since he had been assigned the role – amongst various threats to his well-being, should he not respect the nature of the mission – and was greatly alarmed by what he was reading off of his terminal. The captain, himself, seemed in deep thought, musing the intricacies of space, as did most of the bridge crew seem completely at ease, if not bored. Usually, he did, too. He double-checked the readings, and set the scanner off again, hoping it was a minor blip. He was not so lucky.

The terminal displayed what appeared to be a small collection of medium-sized vessels – somewhat larger than the human vessel – a system from their current location, meaning the _Scimitar_ should be out of _their_ sensor range, but nothing had ever come this close to HOSTEL before and stayed for very long; the area was, at first glance, pointless. No one would want to colonise a desert planet, and both humans and the Covenant were far too wrapped up in their war efforts to be suspecting of this empty area of space. This 'blip', however, seemed to contradict that. Nevertheless, it was not Covenant strategy to go out of their way to be particularly covert. Their typical plan of action would be to maraud their way into the system, use their superior firepower to take what they want, glassing anything that stood in their way.

_Insurrectionists, maybe? _Crawley considered to himself, resting one elbow on his station as he scratched his temple. _Nah, this is too far out from their space. They have much more important things to be dealing with._ He decided to come forward with his information, and spun his chair round energetically. "Captain Fairview, sir."

Nathaniel Fairview, deep into his fifties, turned graciously on the spot to face the fresh-faced ensign addressing him, running his right hand through his short, greying hair. "What is it, son?" A fatherly manner always seemed best when dealing with the younger staff, he had decided. Made them more comfortable on these covert assignments for the spooks at ONI.

"Well, sir. I'm not quite sure. You see," Jack noticed he was starting to stutter a bit as he spoke, but managed to maintain his composure as he continued his sentence. "Well, the sensor logs came up red for me about ten minutes ago, as they've been programmed to, indicating a presence in the nearby sector." He pointed to the diagram that came up on his screen that Fairview looked at with deep interest. "At first I thought it was a blip, or maybe someone just slipping through quickly. Bandits, or something, but I keep running checks and multiple scans. Nothing's changing."

If the captain was worried by this turn of events, he certainly didn't show any signs of it as he straightened his uniform. "How many?"

"Two, sir. One larger than the other."

"Your personal opinion?"

"Covenant, sir. They shouldn't be able to detect us from where they are, but they've not mov-" The two red blips on the screen disappeared, leaving the image of an empty star system with nothing unusual about it. The ensign's heart sank. He was pleased that there was nothing of particular interest that could endanger them, but his alerting the captain, when nothing actually came of it all, embarrassed him.

"Look, don't worry about it, son. This is one of those assignments. You did good letting me know." Fairview had caught onto Jack's mood, and squeezed him gently at the shoulder reassuringly. "You're gonna settle in here fine, kid. Just keep your eyes peel-"

The main lighting on the bridge shut off, leaving the command centre lit only by the faint images and designs of the computer terminals, with no emergency lights replacing the main ones. People began to talk loudly in alarm, only managing to make out basic features. The captain could be clearly seen in the basking light of HOSTEL to Jack's right, and his face remained as stiffly cool as ever, although the look in his glinting eyes betrayed him. It was amongst the now growing calls of the other officers, both on the bridge and from nearby stations down corridors that the terminals then shut themselves off. Fairview began barking orders at his officers, his demeanour less calm and more agitated. Whether or not anyone was listening, however, was another issue.

The gentle humming of the ship then ceased, and Jack felt his insides begin to churn. Artificial gravity had evidently failed, and he struggled in vain to grab the safety harness of his chair, but was too panicked and too slow to be successful, and ended up pushing himself further away from his workstation. People began to scream louder, with the captain – once so dominating and inspiring – failing to bring any order to the chaos that now engulfed his crew. The only noise that could be heard over the top of the squabbling was the sound of the blast doors that connected the bridge to the rest of the _Scimitar _sealing shut, and then the gentle clicking of life support shutting down. It was at this moment that Ensign Jack Crawley found himself shouting in desperation, although his – and indeed everyone else's – endeavours, only increased the rate at which air was consumed in this new metal tomb.

As bodies floated, flailed and collided, people's skin began to lose its colour as the temperature dropped down low. Jack was one of the last, as he found himself face to face with the commanding officer, white as a sheet, and eyes glassy and grey. If there were any breathable air left, the junior officer's dying scream would have been deafening.

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_I don't pretend to be a great physicist or to have a great understanding of how things would really have turned out in such a scenario, but I hope the picture painted is engaging enough for readers to be interested and enjoying the experience._


	3. Chapter Two

**_CHAPTER TWO_**

**1030 Hours, September 30, 2552, (Military Calendar)/Training Centre, "Hostel Base", Hostel**

Daniel threw another clip into his MA5C Assault Rifle, before narrowly dodging a grenade thrown by his opponent's launcher, although the resultant EMP charge was close enough in proximity to cause his heads-up display to crackle across the inside of his faceplate. The weak shields that were installed in his modified SPI armour were down, and were only just beginning to recharge as he threw a flashbang in the direction of the attacker. A loud grunting sound was heard from the other end of the darkened stone hall, and Daniel took his chance.

The tall Spartan sprung from the ground, taking full advantage of the brief moment he would have the upper-hand, and unloaded the whole clip of his weapon into the similarly-armoured figure in front of him, who had been scrambling for cover behind a rock. The stun rounds pummelled down Daniel's enemy's shields and even fractured the visor of his helmet. Throwing his empty gun to one side, the victorious Spartan continued rushing towards his target, and brought his clenched fist across the other staggered opponent's helmet, forcing him to double over. He joined the first blow with a second from his right foot, smacking him square in the chest before he could recover.

The "X" variation of the Semi-Powered Infiltration armour may have increased density and other added defensive features built into it, but even the strengthened nano-crystals hidden within the hardened green plates would not have protected the wearer from the immense pain such a kick would have evoked. However, it did save the unlucky recipient from being permanently injured, as any other human combatant would have been, save for the heavily armoured, and greatly superior predecessors to the SPARTAN-III programme, although Daniel and his ilk in Group Zeta would soon be amongst them. Already, the strength of those in his team, and in fact those in the previous teams of the SPARTAN-III-X programme – codenamed "3X" – who had already been certified as combat ready and released into the war against the Covenant, scattered across the galaxy serving mankind and its forces. Originally, Daniel had been chosen for the base SPARTAN-III programme, been trained for years by Lieutenant Commander Kurt Ambrose and Chief Petty Officer Mendez as a member of Gamma Company, and had been injected with various chemicals to enhance his mind and body, to be a true Spartan warrior. However, unbeknownst to those involved in preparing the bio-augmentation, a select few had been dosed with many extra and different drugs during the procedure. It had been a gamble on behalf of those involved in the 3X plans, but it hadn't been the first time they had conducted this exercise; Group Zeta had not been the first batch taken from Kurt's Companies. The same had already been done – even without much of ONI's knowing – to Beta Company some years before. Daniel G075, now G075-X, was just one of many Spartan III-Xs that had been augmented to reach much the same level as the Spartan-IIs, as was the crumpled body lying before him: Harry G291-X.

"That… was… unnecessary…" Harry spoke slowly in-between gasps for breath; barely moving as he gradually recovered from the pain he was enduring.

Dan extended a hand out to his fallen comrade, smiling under his now un-polarised visor. "It was about time I got my own back."

"You don't think you went a _bit_ far?" Harry had taken the offer for help, and was now steadying himself next to his victorious Spartan brother. He could not argue, however, that it was about time his taller friend had won one of their spars; Harry nearly won all of them, and was proud of his so far unmarred track record. This was certainly a change from the norm. He ran his finger over the crack in his curved helmet, disdainfully considering the poor visor design before taking it off and thrusting it in front of Daniel. "You speak to the gunny about it."

075 laughed before pushing it back into Harry's hands. "I don't think so, you cheeky git. I'm not dealing with that old sod again. Not after last time. The guy already hates my guts after last time."

"Well maybe you should stop smashing his equipment up, then!" It was a well-known fact that HOSTEL's gunnery sergeant was not a pleasant or outgoing man. In fact, he was quite the opposite. Everyone had come to the conclusion had had an issue with Spartans. And ONI scientists. And ODSTs. And doctors. And anyone else, in fact, that wasn't a gunnery sergeant well over fifty years old that serviced UNSC machinery, although there had been rumours of the old man swearing to himself when alone. "Maybe have a chat with the captain about it; you're his favourite, after all. That common British lineage, and all that." Harry was well aware that Dan, like all other Spartan-IIIs, was the orphaned child of parents killed on a human colony, but they had been a proud British family, originating from Earth, and had only been on the colony a few months before its glassing. As such, the eager young warrior had picked up many idioms that remained with him to this day.

"His favourite? You do talk some crap, sometimes. You see the amount of verbal reasoning he set me the other day? And you've heard some of the stuff he shouts at me. Always picking on me."

"No more than anyone else, you big woose. That's just how he is."

The pair left the training course through one of the large archways at either end of the large room, narrowly avoiding another of the Spartan trainees jogging passed them, fully clad in the heavier variant of the SPI armour; another of the captain's punishments. He would often force one of the recruits to gear up in the heaviest version of the armour available to them, specially designed for such a task of causing great discomfort to the wearer, as not only was the equipment three times the weight, it regularly dosed the wearer with a chemical that would cause them to fatigue quicker, making for a lethal exercise for those who stepped out of line. As usual, it was Markus G198-X behind the visor, no doubt filling his green metal suit with litres of salty sweat. Daniel grimaced at the thought, and felt compelled to remove in his own helmet to get some pure, unrefined air.

The moment he removed the weight from his shoulders, he was met with the familiar scents of HOSTEL. Dry, crisp air inside the base, as opposed to the dense humidity of the desert outside, although everyone stationed here enjoyed time outside as the sun set, taking full advantage of the cool, gusting wind as their duties ended. They all felt sorry for the night sentries, though, although no one was interested in this planet in the middle of nowhere. As far as he was aware, the planed didn't even exist to the outside world, and he knew it wasn't simply because of the 3X Programme, although he learnt very quickly not to ask too many questions, or to wander into the underground complex beneath the main spire.

Both Spartans continued chatting as they made their way around the winding corridors of the complex, holding each of their helmets respectively. Despite outwards appearances suggesting a smaller size, the base was in fact much more spacious on the inside, but was clearly not human in origin. Nor was it Covenant, but such structures were not entirely new to the UNSC, but nor did they concern its inhabitants. Not its military inhabitants, anyway. That was why ONI came here, and still resided here, often ordering the soldiers around, and ignoring any requests made to them. To say there was some animosity between the two sides would not be an understatement; the ONI officials were interested purely in conducting their scientific experiments, and the soldiers were only interested in shooting things. For the most part, these two ideologies seemed incompatibly, but Daniel didn't intend to remain here too long. It was his full intention to finally 'graduate' from the programme, take up arms, and fight the aliens that had taken his family from him. All of the 3Xs felt the same. United in vengeance.

They reached the room that stood between them and the exit from the training facility, dubbed the 'Blood Cavern' by the resident personnel. The marine on guard nodded to the pair as they approach, and the doctor sitting at the terminal next to him arose as Daniel and Harry drew closer.

"Making a mess of each other as usual, I see?" Doctor Grahams walked over to the supersoldiers, and grabbed Harry's face with a firm grip, pushing it from the right to the left as he inspected the bruises and cuts. He smiled at him then slapped him the cheek. "Nothing serious. Not like those cracked ribs you gave Romero the other day. Poor bastard's still in agony, you know."

291 couldn't help but grin at Grahams' comment. He had been very pleased with his efforts against the cocky sniper. Romero G281-X may be the fastest in Group Zeta, but if you managed to land a punch on him – armour or not – he would topple like a house of cards. Harry always found that greatly amusing.

"Well," the doctor took one last look at the pair before pressing his thumb down on a pad on his desk, "you both look fine. Tell your gracious leader you're in a fit and healthy state, but, uhh…" He looked at the cracked helmet, and narrowed his eyes at the thought of the gunny's reaction to the broken helmet. "Be sure to be careful when you return your weapons and armour, otherwise you'll be back in the medical wing before you can say 'duck and cover'. That man is the cause of most of my patients, I swear."

"Bah!" Daniel couldn't help but find himself exclaiming as they exited into the stark sunlight, nearly blinding him as the scorching heat struck him suddenly. Instinctively, he raised his hand to block out the sharp solar beams. At times, he really did find himself missing Onyx.

"Wait a minute, would you?" Harry pushed himself up against the side of the stone pillar just in front of them, although no shadow was present, given how high the sun was looming over them. Daniel joined him, and set himself in the sand by his comrade's feet, taking a handful of the thin, golden grains, that would have likely scorched him, had he not been wearing his gauntlets. Harry smiled as he spoke, "At least we won't have to put up with the gunny for too much longer, though. Not long now, and we'll be well on our way from this dustbowl. Speaking of which, have you designed your armour, yet?"

_A long time ago_, thought 075 to himself. Probably one of the first things he did upon arriving on the planet. They had been informed a long time ago that MJOLNIR armour was far too expensive for it to be produced for so many Spartan-IIIs, as well as the fact their bodies would not be strong enough to handle the sheer power of the armour, but they weren't Spartan-IIIs. Not anymore. However, when they were first debriefed on this extended training programme and what chemicals had been given to them, they had been promised that their new physical prowess would indeed make it possible for them to be able to don the legendary armour of the elite Spartan warriors, and armour that was in fact superior to that originally commissioned to the Spartan-IIs. All of them had been excited by the prospect, and even more excited by the fact they would also be given free reign over the designing of their armour, to make them better suited to their skills, needs and base personal taste. Daniel's red and averagely weighted design was sitting in his quarters, over in the personnel dormitories in West Complex. However, the armours they had designed would not be issued to them until they had completed their training on HOSTEL, and had been approved as Spartan-III-Xs, free to embark on their own chosen assignments, a list of which would be offered to them, based upon the inherent abilities that they displayed here. Also, with their release, they would be classified as Spartan-IIs, to maintain the secrecy of this whole operation. Granted, that bothered many of Group Zeta, but they took it as given. People were gullible enough to buy that sort of information. In this day and age, though, they were desperate enough not to care, so long as the job was done.

"Done and ready." Daniel inspected the SPI helmet in his hands. He would not be sad to see this armour go. Compared to MJOLNIR variants, it was weak and cheap, and the bobble-headed design of the headpiece was viewed as a large bulls eye by most of the Spartans donning them, particularly the snipers amongst them. "You got yours done?"

Harry snorted indignantly. "'Course I have. Ages ago. Spent many hours working on it, changing things, updating things, and it won't be too long now, I tell you. I've given it this beautiful deep golden finish, with brown marking dashing the details. Already designed the emblem I'm going to use; a burning skull printed onto the back piece, as well as one of those JFO helmets, perfectly adapted for targeting infantry."

It was well accepted that of the Spartans currently training on HOSTEL, Harry showed the greatest leadership and tactical qualities, which often led to Captain Kilo leaving him to his own devices, and a greater amount of leeway. It was expected that the forty-something leader of the training programme would encourage the other 3Xs to join a fire-team squad with Harry, designed for taking out large enemy targets, such as Scarabs and AA batteries. It hadn't led to any resentment, though; they all respected Harry for the soldier and Spartan he was, despite his often-arrogant nature. It was given that this was almost a necessity amongst those in charge.

Daniel pictured the finished piece in his mind. Aside from what he would have termed as a bad colour choice, he admired the design, although he didn't think much of the broad chest design Harry described to him. Then again, he believed in a healthy combination of both manoeuvrability and action, as well an all-purpose design. He was an infantryman, through and through, but also accepted some environments would be too harsh, hence choosing the HAZOP helmet design. He wondered if they would augment Harry's visor to make up for the epilepsy he was known to suffer from.

It was as Daniel was about to open his mouth that he heard the blaring sirens erupting from all around Hostel Base, signalling the call to arms. Only a brief shot to one another was enough for Spartans 075 and 271 to jump to action, MA5C rifles at the ready, a grenade launcher (like the assault rifles, loaded with stun rounds) nestled on the shorter soldier's back. The loud feminine voice of the base's Class A-AI could be heard resounding from the speakers, demanding a call to battle stations:

"_All personnel report to positions! Take up arms. We have lost contact with UNSC _Morning's Scimitar_, and have just picked up two Covenant vessels in orbit over the planet. Prepare for orbital bombardment. Pilots, prepare for Hornet dust-off. Spartans, ready armour and take Position Delta. Kilo is en route to Delta. This is not a drill. Repeat: this is not a drill. Prepare batteries for open conflict with incoming Banshee fighters. Numerous tangos sighted, closing in on Hostel Base. Defend communications array. Armoury is dispensing weapons. Take defensive positions and await further orders. Repeat, take defen-"_

The speakers were cut silent by a deafening explosion as three large, blue salvos flew into the Command Centre Tower, the first cutting through the centre of HOSTEL's main hub, the plasma blast smacking the sand behind the base as it finished its trail. The second smashed through the base of the tower, and the final blast collided with the tip, stone and metal as one as they scattered across the ground beneath, tumbling rock crushing one Warthog parked by the base. Soldiers were seen darting from every orifice of Hostel Base, weapons in hand, and Hornets could be seen prepping their engines for takeoff, only for several green torpedoes to make contact with at least two of the UNSC craft. Banshees screamed overhead, blue trails left behind as they took up into the bright blue sky once again.

Daniel tried to follow them with his eyes, and was forced to don his helmet to even hope to keep track of the purple vehicles zipping and returning for another run – towards himself and Harry.

"Run!" 271 pulled Dan away from his trance, pushing him towards the Armoury where they could hope to get some live ammunition. The sound of Banshee weapons firing could be heard from behind them, and Daniel stole one glance back, to see the two fighters aiming at the two running figures darting across the sand. Plasma peppered the sand around them, the heat from one blast bringing down Daniel's shields, despite not being hit, only for one single blue beam to strike the faster Harry in the back, killing him instantly. The strike cut clean through his SPI armour, and launched his body forward with a great deal of force so that it was still sliding through the sand after he made contact with the ground. Instinctively seeking to preserve his own life, Daniel through himself to the ground near his dead ally, in the hopes he would appear to have shared a similar fate and dissuade further attention from his alien pursuers. They bought the act.

His motion trackers showed no signs of red blips, but he could hear the tell-tale zapping sounds of plasma in the distance, as well as the screams of human men and women being cut down by the fire, and could have sworn he heard the loud bellowing noise of a Scorpion tank firing its main turret.

The sand around him and his fallen comrade had turned to glass as it had cooled from the intense plasma fire of the alien craft, but the significant and perfectly round hole through Harry's back piece was obvious. Daniel pulled himself closer, and inspected the body. The metal around where the blast had landed had melted; neither his shields nor his thinly plated armour stood a chance. MJOLNIR armour, maybe, but Harry would never find that out, now, a thought that saddened Daniel for a brief moment, until the view of a Phantom dropship entered his field of vision, just over the tip of where the Command Tower had once been, and brought him back to the fore. He relieved Zeta Leader of his stun grenades and launcher, attached them to the back of his armour, and began jogging towards Position Delta, where he would defend this base – his home – to his last breath.


	4. Chapter Three

**_CHAPTER THREE_**

**1050 Hours, September 30, 2552, (Military Calendar)/Armoury, "Hostel Base", Hostel**

"_All personnel report to positions! Take up arms. We have lost contact with UNSC _Morning's Scimitar_, and have just picked up two Covenant vessels in orbit over the planet. Prepare for orbital bombardment. Pilots, prepare for Hornet dust-off. Spartans, ready armour and take Position Delta. Kilo is en route to Delta. This is not a drill. Repeat: this is not a drill. Prepare batteries for open conflict with incoming Banshee fighters. Numerous tangos sighted, closing in on Hostel Base. Defend communications array. Armoury is dispensing weapons. Take defensive positions and await further orders. Repeat, take__ defen-"_

Mitch Daley had heard all he wanted to; he knew his duty, and what he had to do. The hardened Orbital Drop Shock Trooper was already garbed up in the trademark black matte armour of the 105th Special Forces. He removed the silencer from his M7 Submachine Gun, and attached it to his equipment belt, alongside four regulation fragmentation grenades and a standard-sized military issue combat knife, carefully nestled where it wouldn't do him any harm, should he move too quickly.

The sound of muffled explosions from outside caught his and the rest of the Armoury's occupants' attention; the interactive flat screen map attached to the stone wall of the room flickered with static, and the outline of the Command Centre Tower was filled with black and red lines, signifying its destruction, and the likely death of most of the base's leadership. Several red arrows were dotted around the map above the UNSC's secret base, and were swooping low and near the structures that made up the humans' home. A few green arrows joined in the confusion that made up the map's display.

Lieutenant Daley was not impressed, but he knew he had to act. "Come on, Helljumpers! Cuvvies are swoopin' in fast and caught us with our pant zips down, so get off your sorry asses and grab a weapon!" He clasped an MA5C Assault Rifle from one of the wall racks, and threw it to one of his men. He followed suit with the other guns until each of the eleven men and women scurrying around him were armed and dangerous. The ODSTs may not be aware of how the Covenant had managed to get the slip on them, but they were going to do anything but let them take this base without a fight. It seemed, however, that communications to other sections of HOSTEL were not getting through. Luckily, local chatter was fine.

Thumps of feet hitting stone ground resounded around the chamber, joined by the snapping of ammunition and clips being thrown into their respective rifles, pistols and shotguns. Mitch was proud to be leading such a well-honed team of highly lethal Special Forces in this war for their very existence. He let slip a smile before nodding at the fully assembled warriors, and heaving his own helmet over his head, masking the plasma burns that marred the right side of his face, and his dark buzz cut. The 'Visual Intelligence System, Reconnaissance' (VISR, for short) activated, and each of the soldiers standing before the lieutenant became outlined with green, and their weapons with yellow. Shadows become lighter, and objects more defined as his faceplate polarised, hiding his intense brown eyes from his team.

Each one stood tall, each outfitted with the same armour as Daley, save for yellow markings across his helmet and armour signifying his superior officer rank, and the added exception of Beverley Siddiq, Daley's second and the team's designated marksman. She sported her 99D-S2 Anti-Materiel sniper rifle with a dignified grace and elegance that caught everyone's eye – a fact Mitch hadn't failed to bring to her attention on a number of occasions, and there had been a number of occasions that she hadn't been afraid to show her appreciation for that fact, either, but now was not such an occasion, nor was it a time to reminisce of such occasions.

"You lot gonna get out there, or what?" The Armoury's Gunnery Sergeant bellowed at the armoured squad standing in his domain. "The lady's countin' on us bastards kicking the shit out of them alien bitches." The ageing soldier threw a few slugs into one of his prized and incredibly well polished shotguns, and cocked the weapon before moving towards the door's panel, smacking his fist against it to open the archway. Hot air and sand billowed inwards.

"You heard the man, team!" Mitch adopted a voice louder than that of the combat that could now be clearly heard ensuing outside. "Get your butts out that door and down that walkway! We're gonna throw everything we got at them aliens, and push our way to Position Delta, where we'll group up with the Spartans." The ODSTs began to file out of the Armoury with speed, metallic clunking and heavy footsteps signifying their movements. The Armoury's keeper went to move with them, but Mitch pushed his palm into the dark skinned man's chest, almost forcing him to cough heavily through his bearded mouth.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"_You _stay here, gunny. Hold down the fort. If this is going the way I think it's going, we're gonna need all the firepower we can muster, and there are bound to be more soldiers headed this way for some firepower." Mitch pointed at the significantly older man. "You make sure they get it." He thrusted some C4 into the man's hands. "And make sure that the Cuvvies don't."

Mitch could have sworn that the sergeant was about to tear his head off, but he knew that they both knew he was speaking sense, and he placed the detonator on top of the plastic explosives. "I'll be in touch." With that, the ODST left through the same door, darting towards the rest of his squad, who were neatly spaced apart on the walkway ahead that joined the Armoury to the West Complex, so that if a grenade were to fall amongst them, they would not be all decimated at once. That did not mean, however, that they would be protected from their aerial adversaries; above, several Banshees screamed through the thick, humid air, blue beams soaring through the air towards the UNSC Hornets struggling to maintain air dominance with their inferior, but highly damaging, armour piercing rounds. Bullets ricocheted, and one Banshee was engulfed bright, electric blue plumage, before pieces of purple shrapnel descended towards the sandy dunes below.

Leaning on the ledge of the walkway that overlooked the Pelican landing bay, Corporal Jonas Smith eyed an incoming Spirit dropship, his helmet sitting on the ledge next to him. He glanced over towards Mitch. "Yeah, yeah. I'm putting it back on, before you ask." The heavy-set and darkly tanned marine replaced his helmet, and activated VISR, which immediately focused in on the Covenant carrier vessel. "I could get it, you know; I have six rockets on standby, two in the launcher. Just give me the order, sir."

"No, we're moving too slowly as we are. Keep an eye out. We might need the rockets, in case any of the Banshees swoop in too close." Mitch glared at where the Command Centre had been, now a smouldering mess of rubble and machinery. "Our best chance still lies with the Spartans."

"Damned beefed up, jackasses." One of the soldiers at the back quipped to himself, a little too loudly. Beverley interjected before Mitch could make a scene.

"They said Kilo was headed there. Maybe the Colonel made it, too?"

"Well, we're not gonna find out standing around out here." The bellowing sound of a Scorpion tank's main gun could be heard to the lieutenant's left, near the outer perimeter, and another Banshee felt out of the sky. "Switch to TEAMCOM. Check clips." Each one of the ODSTs followed the instructions, and safety catches could be heard being clicked. "Bev – take point. Rick and Jonas, you take the rear. Alright, keep moving!"

The squad continued running towards the West Complex. To reach Position Delta, the cordoned-off area along the southern wall of the building would have to be reached, and that would require entering the West Complex from the walkway, and then heading downwards through the Medical Wing and General Quarters. No doubt, the Covenant would already be making their move to secure that particular area of great strategic importance, as would they through the use of Delta.

Daley's team moved up to the door that would lead into the top floor of the West Complex. Each member took a position that was now second nature to them, with two of the infantrymen sporting shotguns leading the charge through the entrance. Above, the stone structure that was the Complex, was taking a beating as a Hornet crash landed on the landing pads that were dotted across the roof, causing another decommissioned Hornet to slide off the side, and begin to tumble downwards towards the walkway that the ODSTs stood upon.

"Move, move, move!" They were quick to react, as they disregarded the usual routine for entering an unknown area, and jumped inside to avoid the Hornet that was just metres from their heads. Its descent was rapid, and was too quick for all of the black-clad soldiers, as two were crushed under the immense weight of the aerial vehicle. Blood splattered as armour and bones were crushed under the metallic hulk, and a large piece of shrapnel shot towards the door the team now nestled behind, driving halfway through them and piercing Rick in his left shoulder.

Agonised screams deafened the remaining nine ODSTs standing by Rick, who ripped himself off of the shrapnel that had burrowed into him. He collapsed to the floor, blood gushing from his wound. Bev rushed to his side and turned him onto his back to examine the wound as Mitch removed his helmet. Rick's naturally pale and pasty face was growing paler, and was reaching a nearly perfectly white tone.

Men and women dressed in medical garbs and three regular servicemen began to move towards the new arrivals, taken aback by Mitch's frenzied cries. "Find some biofoam, now!"

Those in earshot not too afraid to move began to open and close cabinet doors, push equipment and tools off of desks, and turn over tables and chair in search of a canister. The Medical Wing would usually be full of biofoam canisters, but they were generally stored on the next level down, in the Surgery.

"Got one!" Jonas held his arm up high, a small canister grasped firmly in his hand. He threw it to Mitch, who quickly inserted the nozzle into his man's wound, white foam entering and expanding in the gap in his body and armour, quickly hardening and sealing the wound. Rick released a sigh of relief, and began to calm. Mitch grinned momentarily before standing up again. He turned to one of the medical staff.

"Make sure he doesn't move. I've already lost two and we haven't even made contact with the enemy." A thought Mitch was quick to push to the back of his mind. "All of you stay here. Try and make some sort of barricade, in case any Cuvvies try to make their way in."

"Way ahead of you, sir." One of the regulars stepped forward, sporting an older MA5B rifle. "Used all the weapon lockers and gave the docs at least a pistol each, but there's only a few of us in here, following the defence protocols." He was clearly inexperienced, and his clean-shaven face was drenched with sweat, and blue veins were prominent on his baldhead. "Crates are by each entrance and corridor, to slow any advance. We lost comms with downstairs five minutes ago, sir. We don't think their jamming signal would reach that far, though."

"Three guesses who is down there, then." Beverley's exotic accent was even more prominent when she made her quips. She moved the sniper rifle from hand to the other, and looked down the sights, linking up the Oracle scope with her helmet's HUD. Her status light, under the call sign 'BEV' shone green on the inside of the team's own displays. Save for Rick, the rest of the team followed suit, and Mitch nodded at them. The downed member remained on the floor, but was now being attended to by a number of personnel, who were tending to his wounds and administering drugs and bandages to him.

The shaking of the entire building interrupted Lieutenant Daley before he could even approach the clean-shaven soldier, forcing the dim white lights of the Medical Wing to flicker for a few seconds after. Small strands of dust descended from the ceiling above their heads, and landed on Mitch's faceplate, forcing him to shake his head to remove the particles irritating his vision. He turned back to his team. "Right, we got to keep moving; they're countin' on us down there. Time to make 'em pay for Bill and Hannah. Move out down the corridor, towards the shaft. We'll jump down to the lower level and make our way towards our objective, killing as many of those aliens on the way as we damn well can! Go!"

With haste, they scurried down the narrow corridor, climbing over the boxes that had been set up by the Medical Wing staff, soldiers and all, towards the large hatch situated at what could only be described as a crossroads in the Complex. Each floor had one, a position whereby the corridor from north to south was met by the corridor from east to west, and a hatch in the centre of this could be opened to allow emergency movement between the floors; it was a design that had been implemented by the first UNSC team that arrived at the uninhabited alien complex, some years back. Naturally, they had been spaced so that one could not fall down through each hole at once and break one's legs. Until now, the hatches had been used purely for drill exercises, but today, they would be used to their advantage against the already fully advancing invading army, or at least those that were already in the General Quarters below the Medical Wing.

As practised, the team remained silent as they moved, carefully taking their places around the square trapdoor, each looking towards Mitch for further instruction. He nodded to Tam and Keith, who entered first, descending into the deep darkness beneath them, one aiming down one direction, the other in the opposite, their shotguns aimed high into the mystery that lay before them. Everything was still neatly placed in this section of the General Quarters, the resting place of the general soldiers that were stationed on HOSTEL. Either its inhabitants had moved forward to take the fight to the oncoming attackers, or they had already been pacified.

"VISR's finding it hard to pick up light and illuminate the way." Tam spoke quietly, although her voice could only be heard through TEAMCOM. "Permission to activate the affixed flashlights?"

"Not yet, corporal. Try and raise any other soldiers." Gunfire could be distinctly heard outside in the surrounding areas of the base, as well as muffled screams and inhuman roars, clearly of Elite origin. "No power at all down there?"

Keith's gruff voice was distinct over the channel. "No signs of it. Must have knocked out this level's generator. Why haven't they just glassed the shit out of us, though? They clearly have the firepower and capability. Seems stupid that-"

"Cut the chatter, Keith. Go ahead and use your lights. Scout out the floor before we jump down." _At this rate, half of our forces will be wiped out before we even arrive at Delta…_

The torch attached to the barrels of the ODSTs' shotguns illuminated the long passages, exposing rows of military bunks, posters and various personal objects that belonged to the UNSC soldiers of HOSTEL. Tam shone hers down the east-facing corridor, and was met by high-pitched chattering. Two intensely bright green orbs shone to meet the white beam. Her eyes grew wide as she screamed over TEAMCOM: "Cuvvi-"

An ear-popping plasma explosion cut the corporal short, and Tam's life signs flatlined on the team's HUD, and tinny alien voices could be heard rejoicing in glee from the orbs' origin.

"I got the pixie!" Screamed one.

"I blew it up!" Shouted another.

Keith opened fire on the stumpy aliens before any more comments could be made, the pumping of his shotgun drawing the rest of their comrades out from further down the corridor. The rest of the team moved quickly to join the outnumbered soldier, but three pink needles had already become lodged in his leg, and exploded a few seconds later, shattering cartilage and bone, leaving Keith incapacitated in a bloody heap on the floor.

A hail of machinegun fire was released above the man's head, and he could make out the figures of his fellow ODSTs launching their attack against the Grunts that had killed Tam and taken out Keith. Mitch passed his SMG to the downed man, ordering him to keep up fire, despite his state.

More chattering and excited screaming could be heard echoing down the dark halls of the General Quarters, now lit by bright flashes of UNSC firearms, and green and purple pulsations from the Covenant end.

"Keep up the fire, guys!" Mitch roared over the radio as he smacked another clip into his MA5C. The ammunition counter clearly visible to the wielder refreshed itself. "They're blocking our way out!"

"Shit! Elites!" Two tall blue figures emerged behind the stumpy cannon fodder, wielding their trademark blue Plasma Rifles, each firing rapid blasts of blue energy in Mitch's team's direction.

Bev aimed carefully down her sights, narrowly avoiding blue and green glows of plasma fire, and fired a bullet into one of the Elite Minor's heads, cracking both his helmet and skull at the same time, purple blood spattering across the Grunts that had been behind him, which resulted in frenzied screams of panic that the remaining Elite attempted to quell, only to have his own head make contact with another of Beverley's slugs.

The Grunts began to flee, launching themselves back towards the end of the corridor. Evidently, they hadn't yet begun to use the same hatch system the ODSTs were. Instead, they were scattering amongst their fallen ilk, and were clambering over the dead bodies of their previous victims at the far end of the darkened room. The ODSTs didn't let up, and continued firing upon the retreating Grunts. Fluorescent light blue blood painted the orange stonewalls, almost lighting the way for the now advancing squad of armoured soldiers.

"Keep up the fire!" Mitch's movement increased from a stride to a gentle jog, now using his M6 pistol to pop the skulls of the Grunts. His eyes focused upon the far end of this floor; the window, the glass of which had already been shattered, and scorched, black blobs could be recognised across the interior walls. Evidently, a Banshee or some other large Covenant vehicle had been used to shatter the way in.

The last Grunt fell with a squeal and a light thud, with Mitch and the rest of team stopping short of the plunge into the sandy pit that separated the East and West Complexes; the walkway that would have been overlooked by their current position had already been blasted away, and the lieutenant could clearly make out the tell-tale roar of a Covenant Wraith tank firing its main gun, no doubt in an effort to tame the UNSC Scorpions currently staging their defence. On last count, three had been operational; two had been in the garage, and the third was by the Pelican landing pad. Mitch wasn't aware of what condition they were in now, though.

Beverley had made her way back to Keith, and was examining his damaged limb. The bone had been completely shattered, and left his leg from his thigh downwards hanging on a thread. Without decent medical assistance, he would soon be dead. Even with the assistance actually currently available, it would be very unlikely the corporal would ever walk again.

"Ben, you take him up to the Medical Wing, and we'll keep moving on to Delta," Mitch started, speaking over the team's common radio link, "'cause we're about to take a short cut that he won't be able to join us on. Keep safe." The lieutenant nodded to the rest of the team before grabbing Tam's dog tags, looking back to Ben and their injured friend. "We'll be back."

The team's medic, Private Ben Andrews, reluctantly began to haul the badly injured marine towards the carefully adapted gravlift that would carry them both back to the Medical Wing. It had been specially designed to cater for those in dire conditions, and was not of the variety that would fling its users into the opposite wall. Even ONI had decided that would be counter-productive. Ben made an awkward effort to salute with the added weight on his shoulders before he left Mitch's field of vision.

Out of the broken window, bits of rubble from both the walkway and destroyed Command Centre could be seen scattered in the sand, some dozens of feet down. Jonas kicked one of the fallen aliens' Plasma Pistols over the side, observing the Covenant weapon on its descent below. All around, he could sight Hornets and Banshees making contact in the sky, Elites and their squads fighting outside of the East Complex by the Mongoose bays, with smouldering vehicles marring any onlooker's field of vision. The heat from the sand itself didn't serve to better the view, resulting in twisting and curved images around the combatant's feet. The heat waves would have burnt anyone's skin, should contact ever been made, as many a HOSTEL personnel had discovered over the years. A pair of Hunters could be seen firing their cannons at a Gauss Warthog that was speeding towards them; the escapade resulted in the destruction of the vehicle and the burning hulk continuing along its previous course, straight into one of the Hunter's bulks, killing it.

"This _is_ going to hurt, but the hint's in the name – Helljumpers. Now…" Mitch stood at the back of the assembled ODSTs, urging them onwards out of the gaping hole. "Jump!"

And they did.

Each one made a significant collision with the sandy pit below, being lucky enough to avoid landing on any stones or rubble, and thus saving the team from another needless and pointless death, something that commonly plagued ODSTs from their usual jumps from space.

Mitch made a similar landing, but fell badly, and ended up tumbling a few feet further from the other black figures. Quickly regaining posture, he moved to take command once again. "Let's move; Position Delta's just round the corner, we need only to-"

A purple beam flung threw the air, hitting the ground and glassing the sand by Mitch's feet, causing the whole team to take a defensive position. Bev began searching for the target with her own scope and sniper, struggling to make contact before the next shot was made, entering her polarised faceplate, travelling through her skull and brain, and exiting through the back of her helmet. Blood coated the inside of it, painting the now-deactivated HUD with deep crimson fluid.

Mitch screamed as he unloaded a whole clip in the direction of the hostile, enough to force the sniper into hiding once again. Reloading, he began to run towards the target, but was stopped in his steps by Jonas, who was already standing in front of his CO, glaring from his own faceplate into Mitch's.

"There's nothing we can do, sir. We keep moving towards Delta. We _need_ those Spartans."

The lieutenant held his temper, and turned on his heel, trying once again to push the notion he was losing more his team by not fighting the Covenant than if they had engaged them head-on. Followed closely by the remaining soldiers, he led the way round to the southern wall of the West Complex, sticking close to the small amount of shade being cast by its considerable size, stopping only briefly to lob grenades at a group of Grunts and Jackals, and to use Beverley's sniper rifle to end the distinguished career of an Elite Major. Up ahead, a row of barricades, made of the regulation UNSC metal shield barricades and crates, could be seen to create a strong square around a disabled Scorpion, and four Spartans could be seen using anti-air weaponry to fend off Banshees. A smattering of UNSC soldiers surrounded them, and had apparently been tasked with defending Position Delta from ground forces.

Mitch's team jogged into the perimeter, and found himself being saluted by all that noticed his rank insignia. For the time being, it seemed this wave of Covenant attackers had been quelled, and the aliens' main focus appeared to be the East Complex, on the other side of Hostel Base. The lieutenant couldn't see any officers anyway; there was no sign of Colonel Morris, or of the daunting figure that was their resident SPARTAN-II, Kilo-119. Nowhere in sight could his trademark steel-finished MJOLNIR be seen amongst the Spartan cadets now approaching Mitch.

"No signs the Colonel, sergeant?" He approached the senior ranking non-com standing amongst them. Once again, his voice was nearly drowned out by the sound of earth-shattering explosions in the distance – even the ground shook.

The soldier shook his head. "None, sir. He was in the Command Tower when it went down. We've no clue what's happening, other than we're getting our asses kicked out here. Four Spartans are unaccounted for and we've got no radio link beyond Delta." He reloaded mid-sentence, then placed the gun on a rack with a number of other Battle Rifles. "We were waiting for more backup before we made any moves. We've sighted a large number of men fighting by the main spire; a lot of sniping going on over there, and a huge war being waged by the entrance to the main structure beneath it."

Mitch's brain ran a thousand miles a second as he considered the prospect of being the highest-ranking man amongst them. He looked to the rubble of the Command Centre, and then turned back to the sergeant before him. "No sign of Captain Kilo, either?" Without a doubt, he was their best commodity, even if he was an asshole most of the time to people. Mitch, however, always got on well with him.

The sergeant looked dully back at Lieutenant Daley, and then cast his eyes to the ground. He, too, was aware that the older Spartan was their greatest hope of staging some mountable defence and then offence, and of how his death would be a great smack to morale.

One of the 3Xs meandered over to the talking men, and was holding his SPI helmet between his waist and right arm, his face painting a picture of great remorse and regret, as if he were attending a funeral. "He was in the Command Centre when it went down in flames. He's dead, sir."


End file.
